filthy bandages stuck to the skin with blood-glue. Careful. Belief moisten first.
Through the thigh. Pick the leg up. Why it's like a bag, a long, loose red stocking.
What kind of stocking? A Christmas stocking. Where's that fine strong rod of
bone now? In a dozen pieces. Pick them out with your fingers; white as a dog's
teeth, sharp and jagged. Now feel. Any more left? Yes, here. All? Yes; no, here's
another piece. Is this muscle dead? Pinch it. Yes, it's dead, Cut it out. How
can that heal? How can those muscles, once so strong, now so torn, so devastated,
so ruined, resume their proud tension? Pull, relax. Pull, relax. What fun it
was! Now that is finished. Now that's done. Now we are destroyed. Now what will
we do with ourselves?
from Wounds, 1939